Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/76

Their trackless pathway through the blue expanse,
Foils the red comet in its flaming speed,
And aims to read the secrets of its God,
——Yet thou a son of clay, art privileg'd
To make thy Saviour's image brighter still,
In this majestic soul.
                                      Give God the praise
That thou art counted worthy,—and lay down
Thy lip in dust.—Bethink thee of its loss,—
For He whose sighs on Olivet, whose pangs
On Calvary, best speak its priceless worth
Saith that it may be lost. Should it sin on
Till the last hour of grace and penitence
Is meted out, ah! what would it avail
Though the whole world with all its pomp and power
And plumage, were its own? what were its gain
When the brief hour-glass of this life shall fail
And leave remorse, no grave,—despair, no hope?
——Up, blow thy trumpet sound the loud alarm
To those who sleep in Zion.—Boldly warn
To 'scape their condemnation, o'er whose head
Age after age of misery hath roll'd
Who from their prison-house look up and see
Heaven's golden gate,—and to its watchmen cry
"What of the night?" while the dread answer falls
With fearful echo down the unfathom'd depths:
"Eternity!"
                     Should one of these lost souls
Amid its tossings utter forth thy name,
As one who might have pluck'd it from the pit,
Thou Man of God! would there not be a burst
Of tears in Heaven?